


Darling, in my Fashion

by toujours_nigel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Infidelity, M/M, Secretly a Virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t entirely fair to say that it was a sudden flare of passion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, in my Fashion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whitmans_kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitmans_kiss/gifts).



> I dunno what either of us did to deserve this, babe.

It wasn’t entirely fair to say that it was a sudden flare of passion. Remus had never thought that passion excused much, though Sirius tended to trot it out with wearying regularity in all its many guises; they were neither of them men who gave in to a sudden urge, nor unreflective enough to stay unaware of creeping attraction. Remus, if he had wanted to devote conscious thought to the thing, might have compared it to a pot left simmering; what Draco thought of it he had never bothered to seek out, but the boy in daily speech tended towards potions in his metaphors, so it would perhaps not have been a guess too far to assume he employed a similar figure to it.

In plain English they had been trading glances behind Sirius’ back for months, in the beginning only exasperated, slowly growing conspiratorial: the heat had always been in them, and Remus, though skilled in lying to himself as well as others, could if pressed confess that he had enjoyed it, harmlessly as a man steadily approaching middle-age in a hard, wearying life might attention from one barely stepping into the role and donning the mantle of adulthood.

Then there had been the kiss in the library that Harry had so nearly noticed and the kisses later when they had grown more furtive. Then Draco on his knees and the heat of his mouth standing out sharply in memory against the cool leather of Sirius’ favourite armchair. Then, now with Harry and Sirius crowding each other oblivious out of the door to watch the Cannons lose their first game of the season, Draco beautiful on his knees and seeming to want only to rest his cheek carefully on Remus’ thigh where the scars throbbed urgently with blood beneath the staid folds of his robes.

There was only so much restraint a man could be expected to exercise. It had been so long, after all, all the years of his life, and to have a boy, to have this boy, this poisonous mirror of the man he had loved since they were both barely boys and seemed likely now to always love chastely like the nuns his mother guiltily adored, to have this boy on his knees, tilting his head to offer his throat, to offer his mouth, to put a hand in his hair and watch him shiver and to know it was lust working underneath his skin strong enough to overpower a revulsion thirty generations in the making...

They made it to a bed because Remus caught Draco underneath the jaw, his palm over the boy’s neck like a wolf shaking a puppy between cruel teeth, and hauled him upright before they had kissed, pushing him relentlessly down the corridor until they found a door that would lock, and even then only mostly made use of it, Draco out of his clothes with a quick incantation, and Remus scrambling to fit them together as though every moment’s denial cut deep after so long a deferral.

Draco in the morning light was beautiful, golden and unreal and beautifully splendidly selfish, wringing pleasure out of them with teeth and nails and an utter lack of compunction, urging them up and out of reticence into ferocious joy.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, Remus scrabbled through the detritus on the nightstand and came up with two hand-rolled cigarettes, holding them up for Draco to touch to his wand. The smoke hung still in the room, suffusing the air. “I don't mean to hurry you," he said after a while, when Draco showed no sign of departure and instead every indication of settling in for the duration.

Draco grinned, brief and shark-like and more like Sirius than he had any right to be. "Afraid the husband will come home before you can erase all evidence of the cuckolding?"

And that just marvellously absurd, wasn't it? In a kinder mood he would have let it pass with one of those smiles that drove Sirius to fury and he could see wildly confused Draco, but just at the moment he was beyond such constrained feelings as kindness. In lieu of an immediate answer, he kissed Draco thoroughly, and when the boy fell gasping back against the pillows, allowed himself the smile after all.

"Dear child, is it too much to hope that someday you might grow to dissociate sex and love?"

Draco stared, stifling his own immediate indignation in favour of some nuance of tone or gesture he had grasped at the last instant, and said, shuttering his eyes against disappointment, "So it's just like old times for you two, then?"

The tone was even, and the face carefully blanked. One could hardly expect naivete from a boy who had survived Voldemort at close quarters, however pampered. But the tense young body was poor at keeping secrets. A good turn, however unwitting, deserved recognition. And he had been quite satisfactory, beautifully eager and if his inexperience shone through, well, it would be hypocrisy, all things considered, to care about that. Remus smoothed the smile from his face and, ducking his head to kiss Draco's shoulder, more through a need to hide his face than out of any sudden affection, said, "It'll be a new thing for us both, actually. So if you don't mind leaving us some scrap of privacy, that'll be courteous of you."

It would be some hours still, till Sirius came home, but he needed time alone before that, before he needed to don the hair-shirt of unassuaged guilt and smile through the lies. For a minute, or several, he wanted to bask in the pleasant soreness on muscles never used and store away to be brought out only in times of need and close occasions to sin, the way a boy sounded when pierced, the way heated flesh gave to a determined intrusion, the way the spine bowed in a simulacrum of pain in its moments of great pleasure, the way he hadn’t cared.


End file.
